Sunday, December 16, 2007

PLEASE ENDEAVOUR TO USE IT FOR THE CHILDREN OF THE GREY BROOKLYN DAWN.

I am Mr. Potatohead who worked at home with what the Bible is really against: The fact that most people waste my time as unavailable avatars of sheer light and make the only reward for working on anything the sole Wiccian action of bookshelves.

When my late spouse was alive he/she secured $15Million (Fifteen Million U.S. ELI LILLY Dollars) with financial institution here in Cote D'Ivoire. Presently, this money is still with me in house here in Brooklyn. I can't stand to gaze into it.

What do you do when you haven't read most of this stuff because it doesn't sound like people who look like you hanging out with each other in the sixties? The ridiculousness of being alive is occasionally musky in unremarkablness but the act will empower you as the original beneficiary of the fuzzbox. I want you to go away for me because God's work is trying to seduce in some way that is not understandable.

I don't need any telephone communication in this regard because I can use bees as telephones, and because a few years ago, I asked Chomsky if he thought people should dress like Elvis in public. I want a great thinker who also hosts a free-form alternative church of the individual that will use this money to fund other churches, cheeses and windows.

Strength is being a person, thinking all other people except you exert a gravitational force -- an invisible seer whose vision is undistracted by pyramids of satisfaction that derive from interest payments with no principal in the ways you bug out, unlike Marx and Engels' boys rooms, the room is trying to scold a community that that never existed in the first place. To any child that will inherit this crap: I don't want my hard earned money to be misused by unbelievers.

There was no host, people of cannibalism's ineluctable desire. Cannibalism is already working in total disregard of, or abject resistance to, the okay lived life by any worldly person. Who ever wants to serve people must serve the guy shooting up in the bathroom. (heroin = authenticity). Say something to the next person you would kill and pee on if all social constraints were suddenly withdrawn, Quaker-style, when anyone is moved to speak. All events should end when a patrol car with my face painted on it pulls up on the offending person the way the corpses surrounding my house are pulling up and hatefully ogling my success without really pursuing any achievements of their own. Any delay in your reply will give the remains a blessed name.